There's the river. There's always the river.
This river: low, shrunken in October.
Islands of gold weeds sprout in its middle.
Blocks of concrete
(with the roadway)
stand from an old bridge.
Faded, spray-painted, chipped, and screwed.

Leaves fall lightly from trees.
Every so often, a branch snaps--
the sound similar to an image
of a couch disarded to a curb.

Branches overhang the shores;
wind takes the leaves down river;
light lessens the water.

There's always the river. This river
only slightly grazed by us with garbage.
This old river, always
lessened by light and us.
If only it was as is without us
growing and winding freely with its course.